Now he was only hours away from killing a man. Did he really believe that Schrade would kill Mara-and himself-if he didn’t kill Schrade first? Yes… he knew Schrade would do that. Did he call it self-defense? Yes. Had he argued it ad nauseam in his own mind? Yes. Then why did he still agonize over it?
He didn’t know. But he did know that if he didn’t gain control of his thoughts right now, he might as well turn around this very moment, go back and get Mara… and start running.
He had stopped at the upper end of Berkeley Square. There was a spattering of cars careening off Mount Street and tilting into the turn that would take them down on the other side of the park, while traffic from behind him came up the near side of the square and headed into Davies Street. When the light changed he followed the dribbling traffic upward in the direction of Grosvenor.
In another ten minutes he was passing the lighted windows of Claridge’s dining room, which looked out onto Davies Street toward the Italian embassy. A few more steps and he turned into Brook Street and walked under the inviting awning of Claridge’s.
Accepting the doorman’s assistance, he folded his umbrella and entered the vestibule, removed his raincoat, and proceeded to the front hall, where he approached the reception desk.
“Good evening.” The reception clerk was quick and smiling.
“Good evening,” Strand said. “I just came in from Paris early this morning for a business meeting, thinking I would be returning to Paris this evening. Unfortunately my business is carrying over to tomorrow. Might you possibly have something available for me on such short notice?”
“Let me see, sir.” The clerk tipped his head and immediately consulted his computer, typing quietly in quick bursts, studying the screen. While he waited Strand allowed his eyes to follow the extension of the front hall toward three tall arches through which one passed to the more formal foyer famous for Claridge’s afternoon teas. A good number of people still lingered around the small tables, chatting quietly, the epitome of decorum in the most decorous of places.
“Nothing available, sir,” the clerk said, and Strand turned around.
“Not anything?”
“No singles or doubles, sir. We have only suites.”
“One of those will be fine.”
The clerk accepted this quiet extravagance with smooth alacrity.
Strand quickly produced one of his forged passports and credit cards, and the clerk got busy putting together the necessary paperwork for the accommodation.
CHAPTER 56
Claude Corsier had an extended argument with the murderous Skerlic that was immensely frustrating and even, at times, comical in its absurdity, over Corsier’s insistence that he buy a proper suit and go to a barber. There were surveillance cameras, for God’s sake, Corsier had argued-he had no idea if there were-and if the Serb did not want to be conspicuous, he would bloody well dress like everyone else whether he liked it or not. He could not go into the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair looking like a refugee and expect not to be noticed. Skerlic was insulted, and as Corsier argued with him, he actually turned his head away like a child refusing another spoon of green peas.
In the end he relented, and when he arrived at the Connaught carrying an oxblood leather satchel that Corsier had bought for him at Asprey, he did not turn a head. Corsier knew because he was watching from an armchair in the lobby.
He waited nearly ten minutes before folding his London Times and following Skerlic up to his rooms. When he got there the Serb had peeled off his suit coat and had thrown it, turned inside out, onto one of the sofas in the reception area. He was standing at the windows, looking at the tripods and the binoculars.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I don’t want to depend on the audio alone. I want to see who’s there, and I want to know what they’re doing.”
Skerlic looked across Carlos Place. “He leaves the curtains open?”
“In the second-floor room, yes. It’s a library, a space for viewing paintings and drawings. There’s good natural light.”
“You can see everything over there?”
“Very nearly.”
“No privacy.”
“It’s a place of business, and it’s far enough away that, without something like these”-he gestured to the binoculars-“you really can’t see much of anything.”
Skerlic looked across as if to double-check that assertion, but the lights were out.
“We still have to rely on the mike,” he said. “The mike is how I will know if his face is in the right place.”
“I can see if that’s the case.”
“You cannot rely on what you see. The perspective might be confusing. You could be wrong.”
“Of course. I intend to watch nevertheless.”
Skerlic regarded him as if he were a simpleton and shrugged. “Where are the pictures?”
“In my bedroom.” Corsier nodded to the doorway on the right. “Your bedroom is over there,” he added, tilting his head the other way.
“Get them.”
Corsier went to his bedroom and returned with one picture, then went back for the other. Skerlic lifted each onto one of the sofas and began examining it, going over the elaborate moldings with his face close to the gilding. Then he turned them over and examined the backs.
“Okay,” he said. He carried each of them across the room and leaned them against the wall, facing out. He looked around the room. “Okay. We pull that over there to over here.”
Corsier helped him move a writing desk over to the windows so that it sat at an angle to the street. Skerlic removed all the hotel information from the desk, removed the lamp, then carried over the satchel and set it beside the desk. He opened the satchel and began taking out his electronic equipment, putting the pieces on the writing desk like a surgeon laying out his instruments.
Corsier stood by uneasily. The equipment made him uncomfortable. Naturally he was entirely ignorant about it, but he had always had the impression that electronically activated explosives were highly unstable, even precarious. Not reliable. Touchy. He was aware that he was beginning to perspire as he watched Skerlic deal with the wires and the little plastic boxes with toggle switches and readout dials, both analogue and digital. Why was so much electronic equipment always black? He could smell the electrical wiring and the plastic. He noted with surprise that Skerlic was precise in the way he handled the equipment. He didn’t remember seeing any of that kind of deftness a few nights ago in the Harley Mews garage.
Half an hour later Skerlic pulled two sets of headphones out of the leather satchel and plugged them into the side of one of the boxes. One set had very long wires attached to it.
“These are yours,” Skerlic said, extending them to Corsier. “Put them on and sit over there.” He motioned to another chair.
Corsier moved the chair over, sat down, and held the headphones in his hands as Skerlic looked around the reception area and spotted a radio on a lamp table. He unplugged it and put it on the floor about five feet away from the paintings. He turned it on and reduced the volume to a near whisper. Corsier could barely hear it. Skerlic put on his set of headphones, gesturing for Corsier to do the same, and turned on the dials of the two black boxes. Needles moved on the analogue dials. Red numbers flew by rapidly on the digital one. In moments Corsier heard the radio, classical music, at first low, then louder and quite clear. For the first time since Corsier had known him, Skerlic managed a tight-lipped smile.
Suddenly he flipped off the switches, removed his headphones, and turned to Corsier.
“Now, the schedule tomorrow…”